I'm nothing without my eyebrows. They are perfectly thick, dark, round, clown brows. I do not pluck. My eyebrows are what other woman want. And I say this with truthful conceit. I know it because it was drummed into me by perfect strangers my whole life. And now they're falling off. My physical self-esteem dropping follicle by follicle at a rapid rate.
And, on top of that, my long eyelashes are going faster than donuts at a Weight Watchers convention. Luckily I have lots. Of eyebrow and eyelashes. So I'm hoping I don't lose them all. My grandmother used to collect her fallen hair and use it for buns. They did that in the old days. War mentality. I am considering collecting mine and supergluing them onto my skin. Trouble is a slip of the hand and I'm Frida Kahlo.
A quick, unscientific survey on Google (despite my doctors, nurses and mother telling me not to ever Google any of my symptoms for exactly the reasons I'm about to unleash) uncovered some women who were 6 months post Chemo and still eyebrowless. Even worse, I found a group of women whose hair, eyebrows and lashes never grew back. And they all pointed fingers at one of the Chemo drugs I'm using: Taxotere.
Now I know that getting rid of cancer trumps everything else. But sometimes you're tested. You're really, really tested. I mean what if I just snuck away? Maybe the cancer wouldn't know. I'm told it was a stupid cancer to begin with. A highly aggressive cancer that, by all logic, should have made its way to my lymphs, but was too dumb to figure out how. So maybe if I disguise myself and move it won't find me? And I'll get to keep my eyebrows.
The thing is that I'm a fighter. I've never been the kind of gal to just let things slide. And so, despite the now very real possibility that I'll lose the eyebrows I love, I'm going to carry on with Chemo because I have a list of things I love more: my husband; my kids; my family and my friends. Last night this was cemented in stone for me. The kind the mafia use. We were out at one of our favorite restaurants and there was a group of girls and boys in their prom outfits. They all looked like movie stars. I want to see my girls in their prom outfits. I want to spend ridiculous amounts of money on their dresses, hair and make-up. I want to see the boy who picks up my daughter in a Prius Limo and comes face to face with my 6ft8 giant of a husband laying down the law. The kind the mafia use.
Ultimately you don't fight cancer not to die, you fight for the memories you deserve to have when you eventually do.
A quick, unscientific survey on Google (despite my doctors, nurses and mother telling me not to ever Google any of my symptoms for exactly the reasons I'm about to unleash) uncovered some women who were 6 months post Chemo and still eyebrowless. Even worse, I found a group of women whose hair, eyebrows and lashes never grew back. And they all pointed fingers at one of the Chemo drugs I'm using: Taxotere.
Now I know that getting rid of cancer trumps everything else. But sometimes you're tested. You're really, really tested. I mean what if I just snuck away? Maybe the cancer wouldn't know. I'm told it was a stupid cancer to begin with. A highly aggressive cancer that, by all logic, should have made its way to my lymphs, but was too dumb to figure out how. So maybe if I disguise myself and move it won't find me? And I'll get to keep my eyebrows.
The thing is that I'm a fighter. I've never been the kind of gal to just let things slide. And so, despite the now very real possibility that I'll lose the eyebrows I love, I'm going to carry on with Chemo because I have a list of things I love more: my husband; my kids; my family and my friends. Last night this was cemented in stone for me. The kind the mafia use. We were out at one of our favorite restaurants and there was a group of girls and boys in their prom outfits. They all looked like movie stars. I want to see my girls in their prom outfits. I want to spend ridiculous amounts of money on their dresses, hair and make-up. I want to see the boy who picks up my daughter in a Prius Limo and comes face to face with my 6ft8 giant of a husband laying down the law. The kind the mafia use.
Ultimately you don't fight cancer not to die, you fight for the memories you deserve to have when you eventually do.
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| Eyebrow bald spots and missing lashes. |
